Wolfcaller
by cap'n key
Summary: There was little about them that was alike. [ Skyrim AU ]


The man's armor was elegant. It fit him well, matched his personality.

He wore a silver helmet, though it was not as heavy as it looked, one that the color matched the stormy grey eyes that beheld his surroundings. The helmet was shaped like a wolf's gaping maw, painted, bright purple eyes glaring ahead while the lips curled into a fearsome snarl, displaying a row of sharp teeth. The ears on the helmet were shoved forward and fur was carved into the work of art, every detail, no matter how minuscule, delicately placed. A wolf's black-and-silver pelt hung from his shoulders by the front paws like a cape of sorts and the tail sways behind him as if it were his own. He wore a black coat under leather armor, silver gauntlets at his hands. The knuckles have claws formed onto them, sharp and gleaming and ready to tear into an enemy.

The crest of a wolf's head, eyes closed and a snarl carved onto its downwards-pointing muzzle, brings the black coat to be firmly fastened around his neck. Beneath said cloak is warm, dark clothing. Only the eyes on the helmet and a gold-and-ruby bracelet upon his arm broke the greyscale in his attire. At his hip his sword is strapped loosely to him; the hilt is white and gold and it looks like a Blades sword. The black leather sheathe ends with a gold colored trim and three dots, like stars upon the evening sky. His boots rise nearly above his knees and claws find themselves curling towards the ground at his toes.

The man's features themselves were angular. He was slightly pale and a little tall, and had a long, thin nose and his eyes were as grey as the clouds above him. His cheekbones were high and his jawline just as angled as the rest of his face. Despite his lanky, almost _delicate_ appearance, he walked with an air of authority and strength. At the same time, however, he seemed relax, almost carefree.

His long black hair stood out fairly easily upon the snow that swirled around him, and it went down to his mid-back both in front and behind him. The ends were cut randomly, as if they'd been chopped off with a sword rather than actually cut. Red light illuminated the dark strands to a shade of orange as he stood next to a fire, warming his hands upon it and glancing around at the soldiers that milled about, though the stormy grey orbs were hidden beneath the muzzle of the helmet. Some of the soldiers were sparring to keep themselves warm and well trained, some sat near this campfire or others. A few tents were up and likely some were within those. The man glanced in one tent in particular, the second-largest, where moans of pain and soft cries from wounded soldiers echoed from it. Nurses, two women, darted in and out of the tent.

The gentle neigh of horses nearby faded into the ambiance of the noise of the wind and the talk of the camp, and wuffs and bays and howls of war dogs blended in just the same. Two men, both wearing imperial armor and with a meager fur blanket thrown over them, were in chains, tied with the horses and shivering the deep snow and icy winds, clearly prisoners and far from welcome in their enemy's camp.

One of the war dogs sat at the armored man's heels, black with a white underbelly and an irregularly long, fluffy tail that had a strange bend near the base of it. A black pipe hung out of the side of his mouth and one of his eyes, the left, was forced closed with an old, pink scar where fur refused to grow back. He had a white stripe down the back of his head, where the fur grew a little longer, and a chain around his neck that almost trailed upon the ground.

The snowstorm was lessening, and it wasn't long to last much further. "Repede," the man said, and the dog looked up and gave a small wuff. "Come on, we're going out of camp for a bit." The dog almost seemed to nod in response before he rose to his white paws, trotting after his master as the armored man began to stride into the evergreen trees, slightly tense but not of his surroundings. His soldiers barely noticed; lately, it had been common that the officer would leave camp with his loyal companion.

It was a few days ago when they'd been attacked by an Imperial group, about the same size of his own, and luckily they'd been driven away from the Stormcloak camp. The Imperials were not certain to fighting in thick snow and they were already frigid from the weather, their thick (and relatively unnecessary, the officer thought) armor doing little against the icy, cutting blasts of winter wind. The Imperial group's leader, a captain, had fought away from the others with the Stormcloak officer himself. The wolf-armored man remembered it with a burning clarity, and that's what bothered him so much.

* * *

"Yuri, you _idiot_!" the captain snapped. He had short blond hair that framed his face, the top hidden by a silver helmet, but one of less elegance and detail than the one that lay upon the dark-haired man's head. He wore a typical captain's uniform, though not wearing extraordinarily heavy armor, rather its much lighter counterpart. The captain was a knight-mage, though like a typical warrior, preferred the blade over the mystics. An iron sword was the weapon of his choice, the steel blued as if the sky itself was made apart of the sword, and he held a wooden, steel-lined shield in the other.

The wolf-armored man, the Wolfcaller Yuri Lowell, knew him well.

They had grown up together.

"You're turning to the _Stormcloaks_? What the _hell_ happened to your _reasoning_ \- did any sort of logic go out the window with you when you left training?"

The officer met his old friend and current enemy blow for blow, sending sparks flying and the shrill shriek of metal biting and sliding against each other. Currently, his expression was an unbroken mask. Just as cold as the land he was resting in, contrasting with the flaring annoyance, the evolving anger, that the blond-haired Imperial held in front of him. "I know what I'm doing, Flynn," the Stormcloak responded. "Skyrim can survive without the Empire. We don't need their help."

The captain drew back a little, scowling, before he let out a brief bark of a laugh, dry and mocking. "Have you forgotten the ordeals Skyrim goes through at this very time? Or the ones not long ago? For example, the high elves. They're cats just waiting for the mouse to peer out of his hole, Yuri. They're ready to pounce the moment they see weakness. You know they'll take over Skyrim, and won't think twice about it. You know who defended it last time? The Empire, that's who. Without us, you're sitting ducks."

"We can deal with our own _problems_ , Flynn!The Empire doesn't help us all that much, anyway! What about the poor? What about all those people - even in Solitude, for gods' sake - who don't get enough to eat every day? Who must live in rags and call those ugly, cobbled streets their homes and _beds_? Who helps with that, Flynn? _Who_?"

"Certainly not you. The world cannot be perfect, Yuri," Flynn quipped angrily. "And what of the Argonians forced to live on the docks of Windhelm? The dark elves cornered into the slums? The Khajiit that are not welcome within the city walls, because their kind are painted as thieves and brigands? What of _them_ , Yuri? Who helps them?"

Their physical blows rained down as strong as their verbal ones. They flew at each other with strike after strike, some of the moves parried with a clang or blocked with Flynn's shield, some dodged and some found their mark, but never terribly, merely scratches or small dents in their armor. Their styles were differing but even after all this time they still found themselves on the same level, unable to find a true winner. One, occasionally, be knocked down or take a dizzying strike to the head, but it never lasted. And both parties were unwilling to impart a killing blow to their friend, and still they held back, still they refused to go at each other with all their might.

The Imperial, eventually, pulled away from the assault, lowering his sword and conceding the drawn out match. Both of them were exhausted; a sword-on-sword fight like this was not supposed to be drawn out this long and both exhaled heavily, clouds of fog leaving their parted lips. Flynn could feel the rush of adrenaline and the flush of heat, sweat still on him even in the freezing weather. Their shoulders heaved and they stood gazing at each other for a few moments, faces flushed and postures tired.

Flynn eventually pulled back his group as well, unable to convince his friend ( _former, perhaps? He hoped not - but the reality of it was uncertain_ ) to release the two men of his own captured in battle. There were no casualties on either side, save a war dog of the Stormcloak's and a badly injured Imperial, but Flynn still had parting words for him.

"If you _dare_ harm them, Yuri Lowell," he growled, "I will _personally_ punish you for it."

Yuri stared at him as he left, briefly glancing over to the restrained, armored men.

"...Yeah," he breathed to the sounds of receding armor. "Got it."

* * *

 **A/N:** Probably some things were incorrect. Haven't played Skyrim in a while, just got this idea one day. Coulda been from a Tumblr post talking about Yuri and armor or something like that but yeah, just a few thoughts that have gone along in my head for a bit. I like Flynn/Yuri arguments, they're fun to write.

Also, I'm incredibly biased against the Stormcloaks. Ulfric can stick his sword up his butt for all I care.


End file.
